He calls them his girls. We have a name for each one. It’s our little in-joke.
He grabs a feel whenever he can get away with it. Cups me from behind, rubs and tweaks, strokes and fondles. Ambushes me in the morning while I’m groggily sucking down coffee and still only at the grunting stage of conversation. Slides his cold hands – why are they always so fucking cold? – into my shirt to pinch my nipples.
Some things men never grow out of, I guess. It starts with frogs and worms, evolves to farts and burps, and finally morphs into ice cold fingers on your nips. All these years together, and he still giggles when I shriek in shock.
Psst. Can I tell you a secret? I love his devilish grin, the look that says “I’ve been bad. And you love it.”
He’s a breast man, if I haven’t made it clear before. When we’re having sex, he often asks if I want him to pull out and cum on my tits. We both love watching all that warm, pearly jizz painting my skin. Yet it’s a tough call, because I also love feeling him come inside me. Right at the edge of orgasm he lets go of control and goes all primal male. His dick swells even bigger, he goes deeper, faster, and then, and then…
He hammers me like a rusty nail. Holy bruised cervix, Batman, but I loves me some deep penetration.
So when he asks, I usually tease him, refusing to make a decision. I say, maybe this time I’ll have him pull out, come on my breasts. Maybe I’ll rub in all that creamy goodness while he finger fucks me.
By which point, he’s losing control and begging me to make a decision or it’ll be too late. I always laugh, crazily excited by his excitement. He groans and calls me a wench.
Come to think of it, maybe that’s my version of cold fingers.
Then there are the times he fucks my tits. They’re huge. DDDs, I shit you not. But he’s got big hands and a big dick, so everything fits.
The way we do it is this: I grip his hard-on while he wraps big paws around the sides of my boobs. I drip some lube on the head and in my cleavage. Then I pull him to me and he presses my boobs together. He says it feels incredible, deep and soft, warm and slick. Then he goes to town, mashing my mounds together tighter and tighter, hips pumping faster and faster.
Most men, their cocks would get lost in all my mammarian excess. He’s long enough for the head to clear the valley. I have to admit, there’s a certain cuteness factor involved. His head pokes out like a groundhog popping out of a burrow or a happy helmeted mushroom playing jack-in-the-box. The only drawback is I have to be careful bending my head to watch. A couple of times, he’s whacked me in the chin.
Tit fucking doesn’t stimulate my naughty bits directly, but the entire experience still puts me in sensory overload. The sound of his breathing, smell of his skin, velvet hard flesh slippy sliding in and out, pearly droplets forming at the tip, warm hands holding me tight…Damn, I’m turned on just thinking about it.
His Girls ©2016 by Devi Ansevi. Written to do double duty for Molly’s Kink of the Week prompt: Titty Fucking, and for Rebel’s Wicked Wednesday Prompt 203: Questions. Molly asked, “Titty fucking: porn trope or actual thing?” My answer: “Actual thing for us. Exciting, but requires a lot of coordination.”
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